


Sing Me Now Asleep

by lildogie



Series: When My Love Swears [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Aftercare, Bulges and Nooks, Consensual Kink, Consensual Somnophilia, Consensual role-play of a nonconsensual situation, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, Flushed Romance | Matesprits, M/M, Offscreen Karkat♦Gamzee, Post-Sburb/Sgrub, Size Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-23
Updated: 2014-11-23
Packaged: 2018-02-26 16:37:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2658914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lildogie/pseuds/lildogie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bro and Karkat try out something new. Karkat finds it harder to choreograph than expected.</p><p>(Set roughly a year after <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/1695011">My Thoughts Remain Below</a>.  Characterization makes more sense if you've read that, but "established D/s relationship" should cover it, if you wanna start here.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sing Me Now Asleep

**Author's Note:**

> Give those tags a good eyeballing, dear reader. Just get your oculars all over those sonsagrubs. If you'd be partial to clarification on some finer point before gettin' your nubs wet, just [make some noise at me](http://lildogiensfw.tumblr.com/ask). :)

  
A huge stranglebeast has you wrapped in its muscular coils. Its smooth belly slides along your torso, caressing and tickling. It's heavy enough that you feel pressure all around you, not enough to crush, just enough to bring your nerves alive with the thrill of restraint. Your limbs are heavy and languorous, not yet motivated to struggle, and then its long tail slides between your legs and your back arches. 

  
You open your eyes to the wall of your matesprit's respiteblock. It's smooth human skin, not scales, wrapped around you, though his forearms could pass for the steely coils of a stranglebeast. His left arm is draped over your waist, the other wound under you, his thumb kneading your pectoral just hard enough that it feels like intent. 

  
You're about to snap at him for waking you when you remember. Right. You agreed he'd surprise you with this. Point to you for not blowing it from the start. Ha. He probably thought he'd catch you out and get to gloat over it. 

  
His knee presses between your legs and his muscular thigh presses up softly against your nook. You tense reflexively, muscles in your nook responding, but you catch yourself. You're supposed to pretend you're asleep. Right, so... You relax. 

  
He splays his left hand over your abdomen and pulls your hips back gently against him, rocking his leg between yours, just softly brushing along the edge of your nook. 

  
He nuzzles your neck, the softness of his lips pressing to your throat, then the underside of your ear. When he sucks the lobe into his mouth, you tense again, catching your breath. 

  
He stills, your earlobe held delicately between his incisors, saliva cool on the skin. You let yourself go lax in his arms. He's motionless a moment longer, and then his right hand trails down to your grub scar and begins a slow spiral over it. 

  
You moan quietly before you can help yourself. He stops again. Okay, so the game is he's trying not to wake you... so if you stir, he has to back off. You gnaw your lip in frustration, briefly consider rolling him over and riding him until he cries Mother Grub, but no... no, you're not about to be outdone. He's not going to have your failure to play out his fantasy to hold over you. Fuck him, you'll "sleep" through an earthquake, if you have to. 

  
You close your eyes. What with recuperacoons and sopor on Alternia, faking sleep wasn't a skill you ever acquired, and Gamzee knows your breathing patterns too well for it to work—if you don't want to get up, he'll just crawl into the pile with you, anyhow. So how does this work? 

  
You shift your shoulders and settle back against him. After a moment, the light rubbing of your grub scar and the gentle pressure of his thigh resume. He kisses your jaw. 

  
You exhale breathily as he nips the skin, sucks gently at the spot he knows you like. Your heart thumps and you feel your bulge begin to swell in its sheath, not yet enough to protrude. His hand smooths down your abdomen and a finger traces the seam of your inner thigh. You tense in anticipation, but once again, he stops. 

  
_You bastard,_ you think. _How do you expect me to keep entirely—_

  
"Shhhh," he murmurs against your ear. He nuzzles your cheek, smoothing your hair as his left hand slides over your nook. His hand is wide, with craggy knuckles, skin uneven from sword calluses, and even his delicate touch speaks of strength. "Hush now," he whispers, chin bumping you softly as he cups you a little tighter. "Shhh." 

  
Oh, fuck, that's good. Why is that good? 

  
He shifts his hand and you feel your material on his fingers. The middle one slides between the outer lips of your nook into the moistening folds. A small noise escapes you. To compensate, you let your head fall back, like you're just making noise in your sleep—that's a thing, right? Yeah, you're pretty sure... 

  
He leaves a trail of material up your stomach as he draws his hand away, and he leans back, unwinding his arms from around you. Shit. Is he calling it off? Did you fuck it up already? 

  
"Shhh," he says again, and eases you onto your back, into the warmth he's left on the sheets. 

  
Okay, you're still on. You quell the impulse to peek through your lashes. For one, he'd probably catch you, but also, you think you'll manage the illusion better if you get into it. You've never actually caught Dirk asleep, as many times as you've shared a futon. You always fall asleep first, and he always wakes up before you. Somehow your mid-morning trip to the load gaper will always be factored in. Gamzee, on the other hand, will nap on top of you at the least provocation, so you have plenty of mental footage of that. You don't think you're constitutionally capable of the same level of unguardedness, but you could take a few notes... 

  
You feel him hovering above you, his hand by your shoulder the only actual point of contact. You frown, like your dreams are getting thin, and shift your shoulders, half-turn, and nudge his arm with your forehead, utter a soft, "Mm." 

  
There's a long exhalation from above you. "Shit," he breathes, with that momentary extra inflection on the 'i' that makes your sheath feel tight. You relax again, letting your head roll back, like rapid ocular agitation has resumed at full strength, leaving you at his mercy. 

  
You only hear him breathing for a moment, and your heartbeat races in anticipation. Waiting, not touching, is not a usual feature of your encounters. The electricity of thwarted expectation dances across your skin. You shiver. 

  
One hand strokes your shoulder, soothing the honkbeastflesh. His thumb smooths over the muscle, slowly, more exploratory than anything. He trails down your side and back up, over your chest. His warmth fades quickly, leaving you cold and wanting. You shiver again. 

  
There's a small rush of air, and the sheet falls over you both, settles on you as his weight moves down. He runs his hands over your thighs as he parts them wide. Different pieces of him slide against you as he shimmies between them. You catch your breath as his hand settles along the side of your nook, his thumb between the outer lips. He pauses, waits to see if you move. You manage not to. 

  
The rough pad of his thumb slips between your folds. It drags up and down, unhurried, then again. You're just beginning to lubricate, nowhere near ready for penetration. _He's not just going to...?_ You bite the inside of your cheek as that thought makes you twitch. 

  
There's a soft puff of air against your nook, and then suddenly his face is buried in it. 

  
Your bloodpusher leaps up through your protein chute, and it's only by grace of the teeth already lodged in your cheek that you manage not to yelp. He pushes apart your thighs, which reflexively try to close around his head, and pauses with his nose pressed against your sheath and his mouth... down _there_ , and holy fuck _what_ is happening, this is some sick human shit. 

  
You force your legs to relax, but you can't do much about your heartbeat. This is not a thing trolls do, you don't want teeth down there, and your material, that's not where it goes, and what, what... Okay, okay. Calm down. He's trying to freak you out, and you are _not_ that easy. You trust him not to damage you—he likes your nook too much to risk it, anyhow—so if it's weird sex cluckbeast he wants to play, then bring it the fuck on. 

  
He licks you with long, even strokes, thumbs rubbing circles on your thighs. It feels strange. Not bad, not good, just sort of... wet in an unnatural way. You've watched enough human pailvids—a decent number directed by your matesprit—to gather the human oral sex fixation. You have to admit, the idea of him using _your_ mouth that way makes your pusher flutter, but with your teeth and the delicacy of his bulge, you can't think how you'd manage. He's offered to "service you," but you always put him off because it sounded both dangerous and unpalatable. Your material's already going to waste in this matespritship, but really... ingesting it? Trust him to use this opportunity to push the issue. 

  
You do your best not to squirm as heat suffuses your face. You can't imagine you taste good. What if he doesn't like how you do? What if you're repulsive? 

  
His broad right hand slides up over your stomach and strokes the clenching muscles. He moves his whole head as he laps at you, tongue rearranging your folds as it moistens them. _You fucker,_ you think, _you know this is embarrassing for me, you know this is fucking with me, you..._ Or is that the idea? You never let him, so he can do it when you're asleep. Because you can't stop him. 

  
Your hips jerk towards him. He hums appreciatively into you, moving his head faster as he strokes your stomach. _You shithead, you bastard, you puppet-fucking mishatch!_ Your nook muscles squeeze and the folds flush. When his tongue presses into you, you squeak and he stops. He pets you softly until you force your breathing to slow and your spine to relax. 

  
Then he leans in close and his tongue slips in again. You shift and murmur because you can't keep still. Apparently he deems it acceptable, because he keeps going, almost as if he's kissing your nook, his tongue darting in and pulling out, the tip flickering just inside. 

  
Your hand fists in the sheet and he stops, licks his way up to your sheath, and slides a finger into you. 

  
Your sigh of relief makes him pause, but then his tongue is dipping into your sheath as he slides in another finger. You have to make a sound, but you try to keep it quiet, try to channel the urge to grind your hips into his hand into softer, gentler motions. 

  
The tip of his tongue pokes at your sheathed bulge until it slides out, straight into the wet heat of his mouth. Oh, god, you're not going to make it, it feels too good, you've got to— 

  
No, _no._ You're going to win. Just... just... act. Get _method._ If you think like a waking troll, you're going to act like one. Channel Troll Stanislavski. You're asleep. Asleep. 

  
You're asleep, and your limbs are heavy, not under your control. You're boneless, your mind only barely connected to your body. You can feel, but not process. You couldn't move if you wanted to. The tension drains from your legs; one slides to the futon, the other falls softly against his shoulder. He makes a pleased hum around your bulge that sends electricity through your abdomen—but you can't do anything about that. All you can do is wait for more and hope he gives it to you. 

  
You let out an uneven breath. His fingers begin to move slowly in and out. You're asleep. You don't know why that tightness is spreading up your nook, why the muscles are contracting, or what they're trying to grab hold of. You force your arms slack beside your head. 

  
He sucks hard, then bobs his head, taking you deeper into his throat each time, until his nose hits your stomach and he swallows around you. You want a medal for keeping your hips still, but you shudder all over, let out only the smallest, sleepiest little moan. 

  
He stills there, your twitching bulge in his throat, your nook squeezing around his fingers as your body tries for the orgasm it's on the verge of. All it would take is a clench, a thrust into his mouth, but you're better than that, you're going to show him, you're just as good as he is. You shift a little, just pushing down ever so slightly on his fingers for some momentary relief before you relax, and try not to writhe as your body slides back from the brink. You're asleep, so you can't care. He can do whatever he wants, for as long as he wants. Your hips jerk. 

  
He doesn't move until you're slack again, drawing off your bulge with a last, loving swipe of his tongue. He slides his fingers out of your nook and the futon shifts. The sheet lifts away; cool air spills over you. 

  
He lifts your knees and leans in. The delicate skin of his cock slides along your nook. He rubs against you, coating his dick in lubrication and pre-material. It's a tease, but if this is how he plans to get off, you can definitely— 

  
His hips shift, you feel him lean further forward. His dick slides down until the crowned head is dragging through your folds, then sliding over the opening. You catch your breath. Oh. Wait. 

  
His thumb parts you. The smooth, blunt head of his cock presses firmly against your entrance, and his other hand curls around your hip. The muscles under his cock twitch. Okay, no, that isn't possible. You cannot be expected to "sleep" through that. No one could. Just the thought makes you start to close your legs. 

  
"Shhh," he whispers. 

  
You shiver. The human nook must be made of steel, because the human bulge is completely rigid, not at all interested in conforming to the contours of your nook, and Dirk's is about twice the size you're built to take, even if it was. You _like_ that it has to be forced into you; you like him to hold you down and make it fit, controlling your body and taking that proof of submission. But if you can't fight, if he's going to back off every time you stir, you'll have to do it yourself. 

  
His fingers tighten at your hip, and the tip of his cock presses in. In spite of yourself, you jerk, make a short, sharp sound. You blush as he stills, not retreating. Usually, you're snarling at him, he's talking shit, you can cover your sounds. Now he's silent, and your voice seems obnoxiously loud. You turn your head to the side, press your lips together, force your legs to relax. 

  
_The head's the widest part,_ you coach yourself, as your muscles stretch wide around it. _Just keep your shit together for the head._ But you whine, anyway, so fuck it, you try to make a show of it. You arch your back, stretch one arm and then clutch it to you, claws digging into the pillow. 

  
He exhales a breathy "Fuuuuck" as he leans into you, and you decide to go for it. 

  
You're the distressed sleeper, limbs weak and powerless as if they were chained with hardly any give. As he moves into you, you shift, just ever so slightly, as if trying to find the source of your discomfort in your dreams but always thwarted. You wrinkle your brow, mewl softly as the head finally passes into you and he sinks slowly and inexorably deep inside you. You sound pathetic, but on top of restraining your _self_ , it's the best you can do, and actually, it's kind of working for you. Helplessness is not an easy act to maintain on your own, but shit, it has your body humming. 

  
He sheathes himself fully inside you, and all you make is this tiny little moan—it's a thing of beauty, seriously—and he hisses like a steam-driven cargo-hauler full of slitherbeasts. "Shit," he whispers fervently. "Shit." 

  
He pulls your hips down and rolls his. It's a gentle rocking, his huge cock only shifting in you the barest amount, slow and rhythmic. You allow yourself to breathe deeper, let your chest rise and fall in time with him. You're both so quiet that you can actually hear him breathing, and from the sound of it, you think he's enjoying himself... you think his breathing is starting to sound labored... you think. 

  
Your teeth sink into your lip. Are you doing it wrong? You can't think of anything else to do, and fuck, he's so damn big, you really couldn't be any quieter. This is hard. It's much harder than you thought it would be, and... he knows that, right? He knows how hard you're trying. He knows you're awake... doesn't he? He can't possibly think you slept through this...? 

  
His hand lands over your mouth, bearing down hard. Your eyes snap open. He plants the other hand above your shoulder and rams his hips into you. You arch, crying out into his palm. He leans low over you, hissing, "Hush, now, baby, I'm almost done." 

  
Fuck, yes, _finally,_ you get to fight. You yell behind his muffling hand as he pounds into you, try to shake your head free, but he's got an iron grip. Under guise of trying to throw him off, you push your hips down into his thrusts. You scrabble at his shoulders, shove him just so he'll shove you back, harder, down into the pillow, fuck you so hard you see sparks behind your eyelids, oh, fuck, fuck, yes— 

  
He gives a strangled, guttural growl and throws himself down over you, hand still hard across your mouth, chest trapping your arms. He pistons his hips, rapid deep thrusts into your nook, his fingers digging bruises into your shoulder to keep you in place. 

  
An orgasm begins to coalesce in your abdomen, gaining weight and surface tension. You cant your hips, pressing his cock into the roof of your nook, and clench your muscles around him. 

  
He gasps. His hips lose rhythm and he slams into you a last time, pressing deep. His cock jerks; you can't feel the material, but you know he's come. You grind down desperately, trying to follow, but as his hand slides off your mouth, the bubble of impending orgasm inside you shivers apart and fades away. 

  
You fling your head back and groan through clenched teeth as he slumps on top of you. His weight pins you, dick still in you, but it's just uncomfortable, now. There's a flutter of something akin to panic in your chest, though you can't say why, and tears slide down your cheeks before you can stop them. You jerk with the effort to keep the sound in, and he rises onto his elbows. He's not wearing his shades, you realize, as his eyes meet yours, and widen. He lifts off you, reaching for your cheek. "Karkat, shit, you—" 

  
"No!" you say, and he pulls his hand back. "No," you say again, that flutter worsening as he starts to pull out. You shake your head urgently and put your arms around his shoulders, pull him back down over you. "Don't," you say, when he tries not to put his weight on you. You push your face into his neck and lock your calves around his hips to keep him. You clutch him tight. "Don't." 

  
"Karkat—" 

  
"Don't go, don't stop, don't go." 

  
"Okay," he says, and you let out a rush of breath as he puts his full weight back on you. "Okay, shh. I'm here." 

  
He's softening inside you but doesn't slide out. Your muscles squeeze around him and he hisses. You sniff hard. 

  
He kisses your ear. "Tell me what you need." 

  
"Don't be done. With me. Not yet." 

  
You try to hang on as he pries your hands off his shoulders, but he forces them to the futon. "Better?" he murmurs in your ear. You nod. He squeezes them tighter and your heart thumps. He presses his hips hard down against yours. "Done? Nah. Just gonna hold you right here till I get ready to fuck you again." 

  
Your assent sounds a little too close to a sob. You exhale shakily and squirm just a little. "Let go." 

  
He watches you, eyes boring into yours, as his fingers tighten around your wrists. "No," he says, and you relax a little. Your legs slide off him and he gives an emphatic thrust against your nook. 

  
"Mmh!" 

  
"That's right. Just gonna have to lie here patient till I'm through with you." He's still watching you for a signal that this is what you want. You nod minutely, let yourself breathe. He kisses you. It's slow and careful and goes on just long enough that you're short of breath when he releases your lips, which helps. 

  
"Dirk," you murmur. 

  
"Yeah, baby?" 

  
You narrow your eyes at him. He smirks. 

  
"Did I... did I fuck it up?" 

  
"What... the scene?" You nod, another tear squeezing past your defenses. "Oh, god, no." He kisses your cheek. "Are you kiddin' me? Karkat, you were perfect." 

  
"It was... hard." 

  
"You didn't like it." 

  
"No... I think I did. But it was hard. I... wanted you to know. I needed you to tell me, but I couldn't ask." 

  
"Tell you what?" 

  
"If I was doing... well." 

  
"Oh, sweetheart," he breathes. "Fuck, you were so hot. You did so good." He kisses your throat, your jaw. 

  
"You did know... right? When I woke up?" 

  
"I knew." He pulls your wrists over your head so he can pin them with one wide hand. You could get them out, but you arch and tug at them like you can't as his other hand slides over your chest. He squeezes your pectoral, making you squirm. "Woke you up playin' with your tits." You growl and he grins. "You had to actually be awake." 

  
"I was. And I... It was hard." 

  
He kisses you, kneading your chest. He squeezes your wrists as you tug at them. "Yeah, but you did it for me, didn't you?" 

  
You bite your lip and nod. He smiles, like of course you fucking did. It twists your gut in knots, and your nook throbs. He blows out a breath. "Oh, darlin', you did such a fine job. Those sleepy little moans, shit, it was hard not to lose it... I wanted to stretch it out, make you come a few times and see how you managed not to scream—" 

  
You whimper. 

  
"—but I couldn't wait. You were just too sweet, all tender and helpless, not lifting a finger to stop me, fuuuck." 

  
He's swelling inside you, growing, hardening. "I... liked that," you say, and his grin widens, dangerous, making your hips buck. "But it was hard to do it myself, Dirk..." 

  
"That's alright, I got you now." He nips at your bottom lip, pulls away as you reach after him. He massages your grub scar as his cock pushes out against your inner walls, painful near the entrance, but you don't care. "I'm gonna fuck you till you beg me to stop." You give a sharp chirp. "And there ain't a damn thing you can do to stop me, is there?" 

  
He thrusts and you come, loud and messy, fluid everywhere. He rolls into you with a couple shallow thrusts to warm you up, and then he grabs your hip and pounds you. 

  
The tears flow freely, your voice ringing in the little block. The third time you come, there's nothing much left, and you do beg him to stop, but you don't safeword, so he doesn't. You remember a fourth and a fifth, and it's pretty much a blur after that. 

  
* * *

  
You find Dirk in his studio that evening, seated behind his turntables, shirt immaculate, shades adjusted, cap visor low. You try not to limp too obviously as you make your way over, and drape your polo shirt-clad body artfully across his lap. It's not artful at all; it's a mess, but he pulls you the rest of the way up and tucks you against his chest, thick arms wrapped around you. 

  
He catches your hand when you reach for his shades, then relaxes his grip and lets you take them. His eyes are the only part of him that betray wariness. Your pusher thumps. "I'm flushed for you," you say. His eyes narrow. You let yourself go limp in his arms—that's a skill you've worked on; it does not come easy if you haven't just been fucked to within an inch of coma, but luckily that was just last morning. "That was amazing," you say. 

  
He compensates instinctively for your lassitude, gathering you closer, supporting your head against his arm. His posture is overly erect, the movement of his chest almost imperceptible. You hook two fingers into his collar and let your hand hang there. "Did I pass out?" 

  
He nods stiffly. 

  
"Did I scare you?" 

  
He looks to the side, then sighs through his nose. "Yeah, that was a little freaky." 

  
"Sorry," you say. You tug at his collar, a smile twitching your lips. "For the record: Best insomnia cure imaginable." Your cheeks warm. "Hot as hell, too." You twist the fabric around your fingers and gnaw the corner of your lip. "Just... ravaging me like a fucking beast until I couldn't take any more..." You exhale through your teeth. Your nook contracts and you wince. 

  
"You're kind of a sick puppy." 

  
"That's why you like me." 

  
"There's other reasons." His thumb strokes your knee. "Sorry." 

  
"Don't apologize. Just tell me where it came from." 

  
He snorts incredulously. "Gee, maybe from the fact that my lack of stamina made my boyfriend cry. Maybe that. Jesus, I'm not fit to—" 

  
"For fuck's sake." You let your head loll back over his arm. He shifts to better support your neck. "Nookgasms are slow, you know that." 

  
"Yeah, but—" 

  
"That wasn't why. It's not like I expected you to send me home with swollen globes. The scene was just intense, that's all." 

  
He peers at you intently. "We've done more extreme." 

  
You shrug, fix your eyes on his chest. "You usually spoil me. I had to work for that one." You tug the fabric till he catches your hand, enveloping it in one of his. "I had to take responsibility. It's not... what I prefer." He waits. "But I wanted to do it well, for you." You look up. "You did like it, right? Tell me it was good for you." 

  
He strokes your hair back from your face and cups your cheek. "You were so good for me. When have I ever come before I meant to? It was a virtuoso performance." 

  
Your chest swells. "Whatever." 

  
"I'm sorry I had to fuck you unconscious to make up for it." 

  
"Don't be. That was the best part. Whoa, hey," you add, as something stirs under your ass. "My nook isn't ready for an encore just yet. I mean, I'm going to want one. Just not for a week or so." He looks on the verge of more worry, so you say, "Any other part of me you want to have your way with before I head home, though..." 

  
He raises an eyebrow. "Don't get me riled up before we get you cleaned and fed." 

  
You really are still riding on the morning's pheromones, because you leer at him as he plucks his glasses from your fingers and replaces them. "Whyyy? Afraid you'll lose control and ravage me?" 

  
He huffs and stands, hoisting you with him. 

  
You're not sure he sees the big, wide eyes you make at him, but you make them anyway. "You brute. You would take advantage of your matesprit in his weakened state, when he's all sore from the merciless pounding you just gave him, and—" 

  
"Stop." He toes open the door to his ablutionblock. 

  
"Aren't you worried the sight of my naked thorax in the trap will catapult you out of your pan, and you'll just pin me to the wall and have your way with me under the rhythmic drumming of the water—" 

  
He sets you on the load gaper and lays heavy hands on your shoulders. "Enough," he says. 

  
"Are you afraid you'll—" 

  
"Hogtie you and leave you in Dave's closet?" 

  
"Pshht." You wave a hand as he runs the water. "We both know I'm irresistible hogtied. You'd be on me like a leechweasel in bloodfever season." 

  
"Is that a real thing?" 

  
"How cute I am in bondage? Yes." 

  
He runs a hand through his hair, knocking off his cap. You catch it and put it on, but he occupies himself fiddling with temperature knobs and pouring little rocks into the ablution trap. 

  
"Sweetheart," you begin, copying his drawl, "are you—" 

  
A flush creeps down the back of his neck, pink and pretty. "Karkat, I'm begging you. Please shut up." 

  
Your claws dig into his cap. The band of color beneath his hairline darkens, while the rest of him is impassive, businesslike. You're not without mercy, so, for at least five minutes, you do.


End file.
